


it's better than i ever knew

by Bosky, imagines



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Chatlogs, Coming of Age, Crushing, Developing Friendship, Flirting, Instagram, M/M, Snapchat, Social Media, Texting, Twitter, Video Chats, aro!yuri, cat memes, confusing feelings, dj!otabek, long distance, victor coaching yuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-02 09:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10942092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bosky/pseuds/Bosky, https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagines/pseuds/imagines
Summary: The morning after the Grand Prix gala, Otabek added Yuri on everything and said to message him anytime. But it’s been a week since Yuri got home and he has yet to send even a text. He’s been wasting a lot of time imagining how Otabek spends his days, and imagining is no longer enough.





	it's better than i ever knew

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bosky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bosky/gifts).



> For the 2017 Otayuri Reversebang.
> 
>  **Artist:** uppast3 ([tumblr](https://uppast3.tumblr.com/) / [Ao3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Bosky))
> 
>  **Author:** meimagino ([tumblr](https://meimagino.tumblr.com) / [Ao3](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/imagines))
> 
>  **Beta:** seekingsquake ([tumblr](http://seekingsquake.tumblr.com/) / [Ao3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seekingsquake/))
> 
> This was my first time doing a bang of any sort, and I had a blast. :) Thanks to the mods for creating this event and to uppast3 for the lovely artwork!
> 
> Further thanks to [seaworn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaworn/), [blackmountainbones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/), and [machinewithoutfeelings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/machinewithoutfeelings/), who let me whine to them about wriiiiiting being haaaard. Love y'all lots.

The morning after the Grand Prix gala, Otabek added Yuri on _everything_ and said to message him anytime. But it’s been a week since Yuri got home and he has yet to send even a text. He tells himself he’s just been busy—Yakov and Lilia have taken off on some kind of cruise thing together, so Yuri has virtually moved in with Victor for the time being, and his boxes and boxes of clothing aren’t going to hang themselves. (According to Victor. Yuri maintains that draping clothes over chairs and piling them on the carpet counts as a type of “hanging.”) It will be good to shake himself out of his practice routine—“Agape” has become an overnight sensation, and come Worlds, everyone’s going to be expecting more of that Nikiforov touch.

Meanwhile, Otabek hasn’t gone one night without posting to Instagram—mostly neon-streaked images of his friends, the crowd in front of his booth at the club, his equipment, and occasionally (if Yuri’s really lucky) his actual face. Always he looks thrilled to be home, his arms slung over the shoulders of laughing young men and women. Dancing with them. Pressing his cheek to theirs for selfies. Yuri’s favorite is the one of Otabek smiling over his shoulder at whoever’s holding the camera, with an an expression that seems to say _Well? Aren’t you coming?_ And the same black jacket clings to Otabek’s shoulders in every photo. It had been chilly when they snuck out of the hotel that one night in Barcelona—or, Yuri’d had to sneak; Otabek just _went_ —and Otabek caught Yuri shivering and wrapped him in that jacket, warm from Otabek’s body, surrounding him in the faint scent of leather and some kind of cedar-y cologne.

Otabek’s Instagram radiates joy and excitement, never shattered by the disappointment or marred by the scrapes and bruises that must also make up Otabek’s life. Although Yuri’s account is no better, containing little more than press photos of his victories and staged magazine sessions of an “inside look at the Russian Fairy’s life off the ice” in which he’s smiling and laughing with Victor and Yuuri, playing with Myshka in designer jeans and makeup, and, like, doing ballet in the kitchen. Completely unrealistic scenes, the lot of them: flawless skin, flawless hair, flawless life.

Just now it’s 3 am in St. Petersburg, so Otabek’s probably waking up to go to the rink, dragging himself upright, rumpled and grumbling. Or maybe he’s one of those people who bounces out of bed instead, perky before he’s even had coffee. Yuri’s been wasting a lot of time imagining how Otabek spends his days, and imagining is no longer enough. He wants to _know_.

Yuri opens Snapchat, where Otabek’s name glows in black font. Without pausing, he taps the name and takes a picture of himself, blanket pulled up to his chin. The dim lamp at his bedside does nothing for the photo quality and it’s grainy as fuck, but he captions it - _good morning_ \- and sends it before he loses his nerve.

Half a minute passes, and then a snap comes back: delicate pink dawn flooding over distant mountains, glittery city lights sprinkled across the foreground. The photo is taken outside, so it looks like Otabek’s been awake for awhile already. - _Good morning_ \- It’s followed by a selfie, one eyebrow arched and the hint of a grin: - _What are you doing up?_ -

- _can’t sleep_ -, Yuri tells him, pasted over a five-second video of Myshka washing her face with a precise paw. Doesn’t want to sleep, is more like it, not that he’ll say so.

Nothing from Otabek for about thirty minutes; then a snap of yellow-capped white boards, Otabek’s skate guards lying neatly on top. - _Practice now. Talk later?_ -

Myshka’s gone to sleep, her nose tucked under her tail. Yuri takes a picture of her. - _yes!!_ \- he writes, but it seems too excited, too…not cool. And Otabek is cool, so Yuri rewrites. - _definitely_ \- Which is better.

* * *

The shiny Instagram façade now shattered, they trade glimpses of the more realistic aspects of their lives. Wet gray snow in the road outside Viktor and Yuuri’s apartment. Eight seconds of video from a rink locker room, the camera panning from Otabek’s bare, bruised feet to his wincing face. (“Ow,” he says.) A snap of Yuri with the flower crown filter: - _look im victor lmao_ -

This week it’s been snowy and disgusting outside, and unless Yuri’s at the rink or the gym, he stays holed up at home. Who wants to go out there _on purpose_ and get cold and damp and maybe break an ankle right before Europeans? Victor, that’s who; Makkachin makes that a requirement. But Yuri has a cat for a _reason_ , and right now she’s cozied up to him in his bed as the last of the day’s sunlight fades away.

 _i can always tell when the weather gets bad there_ , Otabek texts him.

_how??_

> _the number of snaps you send me literally triples_

_fuck off. as if you counted_

Otabek sends a screenshot. _do you see that? 438 seconds. 438, yuri._

_hey_

_you knew what you were getting into_

_you signed up for this_

_it’s not my fault you open snapchat like once a week_

> _true._   _your social media presence is legendary_

_you wont move to russia so i have to stay in touch somehow_

A minute passes, just enough time for Yuri to start wondering if “you won’t move to Russia” is an acceptable jab at one’s first-ever best friend. Then the reply comes: _what would you even do if i was there? with your newfound 438 seconds of free time?_

Yuri’s stomach does a strange little flip. _id snap mila_ , he answers quickly. A second later he adds, _okay no i wouldnt._  

> _i know you wouldn’t_
> 
> _you know you hardly looked at your phone in barcelona?_

_i looked at my phone PLENTY!!_  

> _not when we hung out_
> 
> _almost like you forgot you had it_

That can’t be right. Yuri frowns, thinking back to the motorcycle rescue, and the park, and the restaurant. All stand out in sharp clarity in his memory, yet there’s no photographic record of any of it. Despite flooding his Instagram feed with GPF pics like every ten minutes the rest of the time, there’s a gap in the timeline for those hours with Otabek.

_shut up i just_

_ugh_

_never mind_

_if you hate it so much you could just skype me_

> _i didn’t say i hated it_
> 
> _but yes i want to skype you_
> 
> _i have a few minutes right now actually_
> 
> _if you’re free?_

Yuri glares at the labyrinth of clothing and papers and cat toys that is his bedroom floor, as if the mess has appeared all by itself just to spite him. He kicks some laundry off his bed—Myshka already slept in it and got fur all over it anyway—and opens his laptop, turning the screen so all Otabek can see is the headboard and pillows. He pulls his hair out of its messy ponytail, thinking to fix it; reconsiders and leaves his hair loose. It’s long enough to brush his shoulders now, and comparisons to Victor be damned, he kind of likes it. Besides, it’s not like Victor owns long hair, and Yuri’s beginning to realize that he’ll be compared to his predecessor no matter what he does. So he may as well do whatever he wants.

Otabek comes up on the screen, fuzzy and glitchy. Yuri can’t look away. “Hi,” he says. No one else is here to see the big stupid smile on his face, so it’s fine. And Otabek has the same dumb grin anyway.

Myshka noses at Yuri’s elbow and shoves her way onto his crossed legs, where she flops down half in and half out of his lap. He scratches behind her ears. “She doesn’t really fit in my lap anymore,” he tells Otabek. “But she tries anyway.”

“Adorable,” Otabek says. “You feel ready for Europeans?”

“I feel ready to kick everyone’s ass. So, yeah. Make sure you medal at Four Continents, because when we go to Worlds I want to see them writing dramatic articles about our bitter rivalry and battle for the gold.”

“But we don’t have a bitter rivalry.”

“ _They_ don’t have to know that,” Yuri scoffs. “Just play along, okay?”

Otabek looks dubious. “What are you planning?”

“You’ll see,” Yuri says. He doesn’t actually _have_ a plan yet. But he will.

“Looking forward to it—I think. Hey, I hate to cut out so quickly, but I’m pretty beat. Mind if I let you go?”

“This is the shortest Skype call ever,” Yuri points out.

“Long enough to see you. Which is all I really wanted.”

“Oh,” Yuri says, inexplicably breathless. “I mean, it’s fine, we’ll talk more soon.” He gives a little wave to the camera. “Sleep well.”

“Your hair looks really nice like that, by the way,” Otabek says, as calmly as if he were telling Yuri what he’d eaten for breakfast that day. “Anyway, good night.” He smiles once, then ends the call, leaving Yuri to stare open-mouthed at the screen.

“It’s just hair,” Yuri mutters, to no one in particular. “For fuck’s sake, Otabek.”

* * *

“Let’s fuck with the reporters,” Yuri suggests at Worlds. He’s in his hotel room with Otabek, lying crossways on the bed together, because it’s a _giant_ bed so they can do that. “Stage a social media fight. Or a _real_ fight.”

“Not a real fight. I could pick you up with one hand.” Otabek rolls sideways but fails to dodge Yuri’s elbow. “Ow, hey!”

“I will absolutely _murder you_ on Twitter.” Yuri lunges for his phone.

 

> **Yuri Plisetsky** @russian-punk
> 
> otabek altin? more like otabek FAILtin @kz-hero

 

“Seriously?” Otabek stares at the notification on his phone. “We’re actually doing this?”

“Hit me with your best shot, Altin. And you’re gonna have to do better than finger guns this time.”

 

> **Otabek Altin** @kz-hero
> 
> @russian-punk at least *i* won one of my grand prix events

 

“ _Really?_ ” Yuri narrows his eyes.

“You literally _asked_ me to fight you on the internet.”

“Yeah, and now you’re going down.”

 

> **Yuri Plisetsky** @russian-punk
> 
> @kz-hero davai is dead, asshole. and so are you

 

> **Otabek Altin** @kz-hero
> 
> anyway, everyone tune in tmrw to see me wipe the rink w/ @russian-punk’s sparkly little ass

 

> **Yuri Plisetsky** @russian-punk
> 
> @kz-hero thats rich coming from a guy who still sleeps with a teddy bear

 

> **Otabek Altin** @kz-hero
> 
> some are secure in their identity. others feel they have to fling insults. shame.

 

> **Yuri Plisetsky** @russian-punk
> 
> @kz-hero fucking @me if you’re gonna talk shit, altin

 

> **Yuri Plisetsky** @russian-punk
> 
> @kz-hero and i skate in glitter, like you mentioned, so id say im secure enough

  

> **Otabek Altin** @kz-hero
> 
> @russian-punk maybe i wasn’t talking about you. maybe not everything is about you lmao

 

> **Otabek Altin** @kz-hero
> 
> @russian-punk you wanna see me skate in glitter? you got it

 

Yuri snorts. “That wasn’t actually a challenge.”

Otabek stares at the exploding retweets on his last message. “So…want to do my makeup tomorrow?”

“Fuck yes I do! But we should try to get caught at it. Let them explain _that_.”

“Are you ever going to stop creating chaos wherever you go?”

“Never.” Yuri leans sideways, pressing against Otabek from shoulder to thigh. “But you love that about me.”

“I really do,” Otabek says quietly, and there’s a moment where Yuri could ask him to elaborate. Demand that he clarify. But the moment flits away, and now they’re talking about other things, and it would be weird to bring it up again.

* * *

Despite the _awesome fun_ that is dusting Otabek in body glitter and giving him perfect eyeliner, Worlds ends up kind of sucking. Though Yuri wins the short easily, he tweaks his knee in practice just before the free skate. Of course he skates anyway, then limps off the ice to a storm of applause, teeth gritted into a smile. Yuuri takes gold, which means all the cooing and nuzzling he does with Victor is about to get even worse. Otabek places second, which Yuri tries to be upset about for like two minutes but then gives up. And Yuri, thank fucking _hell_ , keeps J.J. off the podium by a full three points.

So there’s no gala skate for Yuri this time, not with his knee wrapped up. But Otabek slicks back his hair and skates in black leather and ripped jeans, and Yuri cheers louder than anyone else. At the end, Otabek comes panting off the ice, comes straight to Yuri and high-fives him, drags him into a hug. Yuri shuts his eyes against the flashbulbs. This is the punchline to the fake fight; the fuel for a dozen bewildered photo captions. Yuri could be laughing and flipping off the cameras, throwing out snarky soundbites for them to fight over, or he could stay right here and breathe in all this leather and cedar. It’s not even a question. He stays.

He stays like that so long, Otabek starts to pull back. Yuri twists his fingers hard into the back of Otabek’s jacket, keeping him close. He turns his face slightly, pressing his nose against Otabek’s neck.

“Yura,” Otabek says. “What—”

Yuri lets go, almost shoving Otabek away. “It was great,” he mumbles, looking out across the ice, where Reigning World Champion Yuuri Katsuki is twirling around to the voice of some soprano opera singer. “You were great.”

“Want to go see if they set up the appetizers for the banquet yet?” It’s just like Otabek not to press for more. To leave exactly enough room that Yuri can never feel uncomfortable around him. Only—and this Yuri will not admit to anyone, least of all to himself—he might wish sometimes that Otabek would move a little too close, say a little too much. If he did, Yuri might just follow his lead. He takes a deep breath, snapping out of this uncomfortable train of thought. “Last one there has to fake-apologize on Twitter,” he challenges, and sprints off toward the exit, Otabek racing after him.

* * *

Yuri’s falling, the ice rushing to meet him, today an assailant instead of a partner.

“Again!” Victor calls, and the music starts over, because it won’t be over until Yuri’s lost count of the number of times his knees have hit the ice today. He’s cursing his decision to ask Victor to coach him for a season. Yakov was never this much of a sadist. But, he reminds himself, Yakov can’t teach him all of Victor’s personal discoveries and inventions.

All the falling isn’t even Yuri’s fault. “I keep telling you, the music’s all wrong!” He has to yell to make himself heard over the blaring orchestral bullshit Victor’s decided should be his new free skate, because _apparently_ nobody cares that Yuri went out of his way to shatter his prima ballerina image at the Grand Prix Final. “I could do this step sequence in my sleep!” A yawn cuts his snarl off before he can really get going, and he covers his mouth, but of course Victor sees it.

At the boards, Victor pauses the CD player. “You practically _are_ doing it in your sleep. How late did you stay up last night?”

“Not that late.” 2 am, that’s nothing; he’s stayed up _way_ longer other nights.

“Sure. Well, I think we’re done for the day. You’re going to get hurt if we keep on like this.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Yuri insists, even though his kneecaps scream every time he bends his knees, and his shoulder twinges from catching himself wrong on one of the falls. He bites back the pain and strokes to the boards with every bit of grace he can muster. “See?”

Victor’s looking at him with something like pity. Yuri wants to smack it off his face. “If you miss him so much, why don’t you invite him to visit?”

“Who?” Yuri busies himself re-tying his ponytail.

“Don’t do that,” Victor says quietly, using the tone of voice that means both _I love you_ and _don’t test me_.

Yuri has been on the receiving end of this tone many times from his grandfather, from Yakov, and now from Victor, so he’d say he’s an expert at recognizing it. Not that it works well on him. “ _What?_ ”

But Victor won’t play any games today, it seems. “Just ask Otabek if he’d like to come here for a few days, or _I_ will. We can put him up. He can even train with us, if his coach is worried.”

“Fine,” Yuri mutters, mulish. “But I’m trying this one more time.” He slips past Victor and slaps _play_ , and the swooping strings and hooting woodwinds ricochet through the rink, and he skates the sequence and he does not fall. He even throws a quad toe in at the end, even though they haven’t even marked out the jumps yet.

Victor puts his head in his hands. Good. That’ll show him.

* * *

That night, Yuri keeps hearing footsteps in the hall, and he’s pretty sure Victor is listening out for the sound of voices. He texts Otabek from under a blanket to hide the glowing screen: _no skype tonight sorry_

 _it’s fine_ , Otabek answers. _another time. how was your day?_

 _FUCKING AWFUL_ , Yuri tells him. _victor had an artistic vision at 16, but he cant see that i have one too. its just not like HIS._ Now that he’s had a taste of what performing _could_ be like, he’s chafing in the prison of yet more fucking ballerina music.

_send me an mp3? maybe i can help_

_i dont know what you can do with this garbage but ok…_ Yuri emails him the file, lovingly saved as fuckyouvictor.mp3.

After a few minutes, Otabek responds. _i can definitely do something with that. give me a few days. try not to kill victor in the meantime, would you? i don’t think they let you skype in prison._

* * *

An entire week passes with no mention of the music. Yuri’s not about to ask; Otabek is also spending hours at the rink most days, developing his own programs. Like he should be, since he wants to win as much as Yuri does—maybe more, now that he’s gotten a taste of medalling at Worlds but is still dying to bring gold, any gold, back to Kazakhstan. Yuri knows this because Otabek had let slip that wish one night, and immediately apologized: _i’ll still be happy for you if you win!_ Although honestly, Yuri thinks he wouldn’t mind if he had to look up at Otabek above him on the podium again. It would never be like when it was J.J. He can’t picture ever feeling angry at Otabek for beating him.

Instead of bringing up any distracting subjects, Yuri finds pictures of cats making weird faces, adds text, and sends them to Otabek. A cat wrinkling its nose: _MFW JJ TALKS. BREATHES. EXISTS._ A cat with its eyes wide and mouth open: _GEORGI FINDS A NEW SHADE OF EYESHADOW._ Also, a sad-looking pug: _IF ONLY I WERE A CAT._

One evening as Yuri’s on his way home from practice, his phone pings with an email. No title, one attachment (“garbage-remix.mp3”), and one line of text: _will the cat memes stop now?_ He downloads the file, but just as he’s about to play it, he stops. He can think of a better time for that.

“The cat memes,” Yuri says, pointing at his laptop camera when he skypes Otabek that night, “will _never_ stop. The cat memes are _eternal_.” It’s just after 2 am again, but Victor has mostly given up lurking outside Yuri’s door, though Yuri keeps a sharp ear out for any creaking floorboards.

“If that’s how it has to be,” Otabek says, sighing. “Did you listen to it yet?”

Yuri grabs his phone to look for the mp3. “I thought maybe I could listen to it now? With you?” Doubt creeps into his voice, though; Otabek already knows what the thing sounds like. He’s probably heard it too many times by now.

But Otabek’s smiling one of his tiny smiles, the one that appears only whenever Yuri does something Otabek thinks is particularly awesome. “Go ahead,” he says. “I’d love to see your reaction.”

So Yuri plays it. And it’s the same piece, yeah, but it’s all cut up and collaged with drums and electric guitar, so precisely arranged it sounds like it was always meant to be rock music. Yuri knows Otabek can see his open-mouthed shock, the very opposite of calm and cool, but he can’t hide his awe. “ _This_ ,” he says. “This I can skate to.”

“I was thinking, if you want—” Otabek pauses.

“What?” Yuri restarts the song, though he turns the volume down this time. He can already tell he’s going to be replaying it an embarrassing number of times.

“Your theme this year. Isn’t it ‘Metamorphosis’? I could put some of the original piece at the beginning, transition into this part…”

Yuri grins. “They’ll never see it coming.”

“They might see it coming,” Otabek says. “No one’s forgotten your Grand Prix gala.”

“Oh, they haven’t? _Excellent._ ”

* * *

A couple of days later, Yuri’s taking a break at practice when he gets a text from Otabek.

> _i know you’re probably working right now, but do you have a minute for skype? wanna show you something_

_go for it, victor wont die if he has to stop talking for five minutes_

> _five minutes is all it’ll take_

Onscreen, Otabek’s leaning forward, adjusting the angle of his phone, which is propped upright. His body fills the frame, until he skates backwards a bit—

He _skates_ backwards. He’s at his rink, Yuri realizes belatedly, and he’s going to show Yuri something, and—well, Yuri would really like it if his heart could maybe keep a steady rhythm, thanks. “Can you see okay?” Otabek asks. Yuri nods, putting in his headphones. “All right, here it goes.”

Otabek skates to the middle of the ice, and blurry music echoes out of the rink speakers. Yuri’s free skate music, somewhere in the middle of the piece, where the drums are heaviest. Otabek’s skating a step sequence, long strides carrying him at high speed across the rink, and Yuri half-believes he’s watching a rock star for how Otabek tosses his head and curls his lip. Yuri can do anything Otabek’s feet are doing; it’s the attitude that’s still new to him, that still feels like a fraud next to sixteen years of delicate grace and beauty.

It’s not that he wants to stop being beautiful. No, he’ll keep the beauty, keep the swooning admirers no matter how annoying they are, but it’s time to add another layer. Big cats, of course, are absolutely gorgeous—but deadly too.

He watches as Otabek launches into a flawless triple axel; lands and does something _terrible_ with his hips. Yuri’s grateful for shitty little phone speakers that mean there’s no way Otabek heard him gasp. On Yuri, cool feels like a mask and cloak; someone could rip it off him at any moment. On Otabek, cool is nothing but his own skin. Otabek makes cool look easy.

The music’s still going, but Otabek has stopped. He skates back to the boards; then the music cuts out and Otabek’s face is in the frame again, grinning and breathing hard. “It’s not much, I know—what do you think?”

“That,” Yuri says, “was fucking awesome. God, I wish _you_ could just choreograph this for me.”

Otabek tilts his head. “Well—do you want me to?”

“Holy _shit!_ ”

“Yuri, is everything okay?” Victor calls. “And are you coming back to the ice anytime soon?”

“Fine, everything’s fine!” Yuri drops his eyes back to his phone. Otabek looks worried, almost, like he thinks he’s out of line somehow; but Yuri can’t think of a way that could ever happen. “Fuck yes, I want you to choreograph it, but—do you really have time?”

“I have to take a break from skating my own routines at _some_ point. Skating someone else’s routine sounds like just the thing.” Otabek winks.

* * *

_Long Distance_ by [uppast3](http://uppast3.tumblr.com) [[full size](http://oi68.tinypic.com/bduypd.jpg)]

It’s not a big deal that sometimes Otabek answers Skype with no shirt on. It’s not. Yuri saw more of Otabek in the Worlds locker room, for god’s sake.

It’s just. Well.

Locker rooms don’t have east-facing windows letting in tons of morning light, or the gentle mess of a comfortable bedroom. Or a best friend sitting cross-legged on his bed, eyes half-shut, while he sips coffee and begins to fit himself into the day. Yuri mostly goes to sleep at a reasonable hour now, but there’s a permanent alarm on his phone for 6:30 am Almaty time, and he rarely skips watching Otabek wake up.

“I had this weird dream,” Otabek says some mornings, or “How’d you sleep?” Always something ordinary like that, which somehow unnerves Yuri. How has Otabek’s presence become so entwined in Yuri’s life?

Every so often, Yuri thinks of Victor’s offer, or threat depending on how you looked at it, to have Otabek come for a visit. But it never seems to be the right time to ask, and he’s not sure he could hide how badly he wants to see Otabek waking up in person. He’s not sure how he’d take a _no_ , and they’re busy, they’re athletes, it would probably be a _no_.

* * *

Otabek keeps sending videos, longer and longer as the program develops. Yuri slips away to the rink by himself in between practices to try out the new parts, until he’s learned two complete versions of the program—the one Victor thinks he’s going to perform, and the one that’s still a secret.

As soon as possible, he goes to the rink so he can record Otabek’s program to show him. He sets his phone up on the boards, starts the music, and begins.

Victor’s version feels like a costume two sizes too small, squeezing him into a shape that’s all wrong for him now. But Otabek’s music and choreography embrace him like a tailored suit, and there’s not a single thing Yuri has to change to fit into it.

As the music ends, he strikes a pose, throwing a fist in the air like he’s just finished playing a show.

Behind him, he hears clapping. Spinning around, he sees Victor leaning on the boards, blank-faced. Which means Victor’s _pissed_.

Yuri clenches his teeth and skates over to him, rehearsing the arguments he’s been preparing since Otabek first sent him the music. People change, he deserves a chance to be himself on the ice, he deserves to have input—

Victor turns his back before Yuri’s stepped off the ice, and walks slowly to a bench, where he sits down heavily and closes his eyes. He pats the bench next to him.

Yuri lowers himself to the bench, leaving an arm’s-length between them.

“I wondered where you’ve been going every day. Were you going to show me this?” Victor asks. “Or just surprise me at your first event?”

Yuri keeps his eyes forward. “Whatever I had to do.”

Victor taps his fingers on the bench. “Yuuri says I should stop treating you like you’re Victor Two-Point-Oh.”

“I’m not you. I’m not anything _like_ you,” Yuri says.

“I guess you shouldn’t have to be.” Victor sighs. “So, tell me your ideas for this program.”

Yuri plays the remix for him, and Victor’s silent for some time after.

Then Victor takes a deep breath. “I can’t say I love the music, but it certainly does suit you,” he admits. “And Otabek is talented. I’ll give him that. Yuri, I think it’s time I got out of your way.”

It turns out a defeated-looking Victor is a little upsetting to witness. “You know, I’m keeping the first half like it was,” Yuri tells him. “It’s not like _you’re_ a bad choreographer or anything. And I still need you. Just not the same way I used to.”

“Yeah?” Victor looks at him then, and whatever emotion’s in his eyes, Yuri can’t name it. But seeing it makes his throat feel tight.

“Yeah, Victor,” Yuri sighs. “Now can we end this _completely awkward_ talk so you can leave and I can get back to practicing?”

“Actually, I had some thoughts on the last spin sequence—”

“ _No_ , Victor.” At that, Victor has the nerve to _ruffle his hair_. Yuri ducks away, rolling his eyes.

“Okay, okay. I’ll let you go. But I’m here if you have questions, or want any advice, anything at all…”

“I know.” Yuri edges nearer to him, close enough to bump his shoulder into Victor’s. “If I need anything, I promise I’ll ask.”

“One more thing. Have you invited Otabek here yet? Because—” Victor swings his arm wide. “Here’s this lovely rink, on which you could skate, with him, and perfect the details in person.”

“I’m _working_ on it, oh my god,” Yuri growls. “Will you _go away_.”

* * *

Yuri sends Otabek the video that night.

 _you’re beautiful_ , Otabek answers, not even five minutes later.

He must have watched it immediately, and Yuri’s heart skitters at the thought. _oh shut up_ , Yuri tells him. _skype?_

There’s candles flickering in the background of Otabek’s room when the call connects.

“What the hell?” Yuri says, eyebrows raised. “Trying to seduce someone?”

“Yeah, you. Is it working?” Otabek deadpans.

There’s a humming under Yuri’s skin, sliding up his arms, down his spine. “Do you have to say things like that?”

“Like what?”

As if he doesn’t know. “Calling me beautiful, saying you’re trying to seduce me—” He should stop there, but it bursts out of him before he can stop it: “I like you, dumbass. So quit saying that stuff.”

“Okay,” Otabek says slowly. “I just want to make sure I understand. You like me, so you don’t want me to flirt with you?”

“Yes!” Yuri says. “You keep teasing me. It fucking _sucks_.”

“I’m not teasing you. If it makes a difference.”

“Then what are you doing?” Yuri hates how his voice has gone small and quiet. Every bit of his uncertainty must be glaring neon.

Otabek shrugs. “I’ve never tried to hide what I think of you,” he says. “Not since Barcelona. This isn’t any different.”

Yuri’s got his fists clenched on his thighs, nails biting into his palms. “Yes, it _is_.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I don’t want a boyfriend!” Yuri draws his legs up, pressing his forehead against his knees. He can’t look; he _won’t_ look. He doesn’t want to see Otabek’s face while all of this crumbles.

“Yura,” Otabek says quietly. “This doesn’t have to be scary. You don’t ever have to have a boyfriend. You know that, right?”

“That’s not how it goes,” Yuri whispers. “People don’t—I mean, look at the entire fucking world, it’s all fine until someone wants more than you can give them.”

“I’d like to know what _you_ want,” Otabek says. “I’m your friend. You can talk to me.”

Yuri looks up finally—and there’s _that_ smile, the one that’s only ever for Yuri. Which makes no sense, because Yuri hasn’t done anything awesome at all. Everything Yuri wants is stupid little shit, nothing that seems like it would ever be _enough_. “I want to see you when I wake up. I want to tell you good morning every day. I want to make up programs with you.”

“You already do those things, and I really like it. You should keep doing them. Anything else?”

How can Yuri possibly say it? Already there’s heat spreading across his cheeks and down his neck, and the light in his room isn’t dim enough to hide it. He feels pried-open; he wants to slam his laptop shut. He can’t seem to slam _anything_ shut when it comes to Otabek. “Okay, since you asked, I also want to make out, maybe, if you want, if…” He trails off. If there was a more awkward way to phrase that, he doesn’t know what it could be.

Otabek considers him for a moment. “So you want to be my best friend, but also kiss me?”

Yuri lets out a shuddering breath. “I guess. Yeah.”

“You can have that too.”

“What?” Yuri’s voice, thin and faint, doesn’t sound like his own. Everything’s gone dreamlike, the soft candle-glow haloing Otabek, who’s blurry around the edges now, like a painting left out in the rain. Yuri scrubs his hand across his eyes; his palm comes away damp. Otabek can’t really mean, he can’t be saying—

“If you want to kiss me, then you can kiss me,” Otabek says, so he _does_ mean, and he _is_ saying, and Yuri wishes he could dive through the screen and land in Otabek’s room and let someone catch him for once in his life.

“What would you do,” Yuri asks, in that same tiny voice, “if I was there?”

Otabek breathes in sharply, but he holds Yuri’s gaze. “Ask if I could kiss you.”

“I’d say yes.” Yuri touches his lips. Like a downed power line, he’s helpless to hide the sparks flying off him.

“Then,” and Otabek’s voice is shaking; Yuri’s not the only one whose composure has fractured. “Then I’d put my hand on the side of your neck, I’d lean down, and…”

“And?” Yuri prompts.

“I’d kiss you,” Otabek says. “I don’t have a prettier way to say it, but I would kiss you, again and again, until you pulled away.”

“What if I didn’t?”

“Yura—”

It’s all over him, shimmering just beneath his skin, this wanting. He leans back on his hands and lets Otabek see it. “I don’t want to pull away.”

Something like awe flashes in Otabek’s eyes, and he seems to have forgotten to shut his mouth. “Then I won’t let go.”

“Okay,” Yuri says. “You better fucking not.”

Onscreen, Otabek hides a yawn behind his hands.

“You have practice in the morning, right?” Yuri asks. “Should I let you go?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Otabek rubs hard at his eyes. “Much as I want to spend all night talking to you.”

“Shut up,” Yuri says, but he can’t conceal his smile. He disconnects the call, and Otabek blinks off the screen.

If they were together, in real life, right now, they could do all that. He taps Otabek’s name in his phone; stares at the blinking cursor. He’s not sure if Victor really plans to make good on his claim that he’ll contact Otabek himself if Yuri doesn’t ask first.

_hey, weird question_

Because of course it’s weird. People don’t just drop what they’re doing to fly hundreds of miles to hang out with someone. Unless they’re Victor, and Victor is weird, so this is weird, and—

> _yeah?_

Yuri could just ask something else. Some other strange question that will make Otabek raise his eyebrows in his Almaty apartment, maybe even smile, but at least it won’t have anything to do with Yuri wanting something.

_do you want to like_

_idk_

_visit?_

> _st petersburg?_

_yeah_

The blinking dots appear, then disappear. Okay, so, probably Otabek’s trying to figure out the nicest way to say there’s no way in hell. _sorry_ , Yuri types quickly. _its dumb_

> _it’s not dumb_
> 
> _i was going to say yes_

_oh_

_really??_

> _yes really. sounds like fun_
> 
> _when?_

_victor said whenever_

>   _i think i have a weekend free next month?_

Yuri’s a little breathless as he types: _that sounds good._ Which contains way less keysmashing than he’s currently feeling, but like, Otabek could change his mind or have something come up; there are all sorts of ways this could fall through. Better to contain himself. _talk to you soon_ , he adds.

Moments later: _count on it. sleep well yura_

“Fuck. Yes,” Yuri whispers into his pillow, a grin sneaking onto his face despite himself.

* * *

“I was thinking,” Yuri says to Victor at his next practice session, “if you want to, you and I could make my short program? Together.”

“Ah!” Victor claps his hands. “I’d love to. But only if you promise to get more sleep.”

“I’m going to put two quads in it,” Yuri tells him.

Victor pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of course you are. And the music?”

“Operatic metal,” Yuri says happily. “Our favorite things combined!”

“I’m not sure I—”

“ _And_ ,” Yuri interrupts, “Otabek’s coming next month.”

“Oh my god, _finally_ , thank _goodness_ ,” Victor says. Then his face falls. “You’re going to stay up all night while he’s here, aren’t you?”

“Not _all_ night.” Yuri ignores Victor’s glare. Just _most_ of the night. They have a lot of catching-up to do, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> • title is from Incubus - “Stellar” which is never ever coming off my otayuri playlist
> 
> • about that aro!yuri tag: i know it’s hella subtle here, but i had that idea in mind almost since i started writing this, so i decided to tag it. i don’t think yuri in this fic even knows how to describe exactly how he feels yet, but it’s a concept i plan on exploring further because i really like it and want there to be more of it.
> 
> • if you think 438 seconds is an impossible amount of snaps, you don’t know [ronniedae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronniedae/) ;)
> 
> • the cat who doesn’t really fit in yuri’s lap anymore, but tries anyway, is literally [seaworn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaworn/)’s cat, like i stole that line from a snap she sent me, thank u eve for letting me borrow your cat
> 
> • my life’s goal is to invent a new name for yuri’s cat with every fic i write, because i treat canon like guidelines not rules
> 
> • and yes i already want to write a sequel where Otabek visits, fml why am i like this


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